


In silentium veritas

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Extremely Dubious Morality, F/F, First Time, Messy People Making Messy Decisions, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Light reconnaissance on Sombra's part takes off in unexpected, debatably welcome directions.(If it were her—hell. Sombra wouldn't want to be alone tonight, either.)
Relationships: Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Hana "D.Va" Song
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74
Collections: Anonymous, Chocolate Box - Round 5





	In silentium veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



The reality of Song Hana was so much less glossy than the figure Sombra knew through the render noise of a holofeed or the filter of a camera. She was no less beautiful, make no mistake. She smiled the same sweet smile she gave the camera wherever it caught her—for the fans, after all, the ones who went wherever she did. The real smile had a bittersweet edge the camera didn't capture—perhaps a fault of the moody lighting. Sombra met her in her hotel's sleek modern bar, finding her already alone. She planned to buy her a drink and met her already two drinks in.

Sombra was not what could be called a fan, though she confessed to be. Though she did know Hana very well—more encyclopaedically than a _sasaeng,_ from more angles than any paparazzo. Hana's trail of celebrity was nakedly public. Sombra called that data to hand effortlessly. Tonight she would add Hana's firsthand accounts—of MEKA, her corporate sponsors, Overwatch—into that electronic stockpile. Talon had its reasons for wanting them both here. (If they didn't care to let Hana live, they'd've sent Reaper.)

This was what the camera failed to do justice, what Talon would never put in a dossier: the peeling-off of her smile's plastic veneer. The clouds at the back of her cat-lined eyes—the fog of shit no young woman (no _girl_ ) should ever have to see. Sombra's stomach wrenched in recognition of that look.

By now the bar was empty save them; the lobby outside had emptied too, and the omnic bartender eyed them pointedly. Hana swirled the last dregs of her magenta drink around the bottom of the glass, slivers of ice clattering. Like Sombra, past the point where the drinking _qua_ drinking was fun. Like Sombra—like anyone still drinking at this hour of the morn—circling the drain.

"I keep waiting for all of this… to make sense." She looked up with a terrible sincerity in her face. "You seem like you know things. More than most people. Please tell me if there's a point where any of this makes _sense._ "

Sombra had enough tequila in her to nearly confess: to tell her _yes._ The missing jigsaw piece _was_ out there, the moment, the click, the _revelation_ , and she almost had it pinned under her paws. To want to—though she knew better. She wouldn't be Sombra if she couldn't see past the apparent thrust of the question to the real one underneath.

She perched her chin in her palm, answering, no less truthfully: "No. Can't really say there is."

Hana's smile looked more like a rictus each minute—having heard exactly what she expected to hear, grateful for that candor nonetheless. "I'm just so exhausted."

She let that remain at face value. "I don't blame you. Guess I kept you longer than you meant to stay. Thanks for humoring a fan, though." Her fingers curled against the tabletop. "I mean it."

"Wait—" Hana drained her glass. "You can't go. Not yet. Come—to my room."

For perhaps the first time, Sombra felt—a stab would be overstating it—a dusting of conscience. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"You have to. You _get_ it. I've never felt—" She reached over the table and snatched Sombra's hand into hers, fingers cold from her drink. "—please. I don't want to be alone tonight."

Maybe Sombra owed Hana a little repayment for the information she'd spent all night siphoning from her inebriated lips and her ill-secured electronics. How much would it honestly be to begrudge her this one favor—so small a matter in the scheme of things? This one thing she (achingly, achingly) wanted? Thing was, reciprocity had never been Sombra's game, as long as she'd _been_ Sombra. She'd heard enough sob stories, true and fabricated, to be above falling for them—

Sombra very gingerly squeezed Hana's fingers and watched a little of that private desperation melt off Hana's smile.

(If it were her—hell. Sombra wouldn't want to be alone tonight, either.)

On the lift to Hana's room Sombra slung her arm around Hana's waist. Something about the density of her musculature—the solidity of her body—surprised her, though it shouldn't. Sombra liked the way she shivered when she dragged her nails up the denim covering her thigh. She was reticent to kiss—until she was certain the door to her room was shut and locked behind them. When she did kiss it was demure, soft lips barely parting, the smear of chapstick and suggestion of bubblegum liqueur. She held Sombra's collar and craned her head like someone who'd been taught to kiss by some film director.

Sombra taught her better: gripping Hana by the back of her head, tipping her chin, sweeping her tongue deep into Hana's mouth. Her hand slipped down Hana's jeans; her nails bit Hana's taut buttock. Hana groaned into Sombra's mouth.

"You taste good," Sombra said. Hana tasted boozy, a little cloying; this could grow on her. She left a violet kiss print on Hana's cheek and one on her ear when she pinched her earlobe with her teeth. "I wanna taste a lot more of you than your mouth." Hana's body arched like she had a drawstring in her spine. Even her small breasts were dense, almost heavy, pressing into Sombra's chest with bullet-hard nipples.

"I'd let you devour me if that was what you wanted."

A warm tremor traveled from Sombra's sacrum to her nape. "Careful. Somebody like me just might."

In pressing Hana to the mattress, Sombra worked off her top, her bra, and rolled a stiff nipple between finger and thumb. Hana's shoulders pinkened, clouds of red rising to her cheeks. Sombra kissed her flushing throat and the crest of her collarbone, taking her sweet time reaching her pink-brown nipple, circling it with her tongue before she took it into her mouth. When Hana's hips jerked, Sombra caught her thrust, pressing the pad of her thumb into the rigid seam of her jeans. As she rocked her thumb into the nub behind that seam—just so—she brought her teeth into her hold on Hana's nipple. Hana's breath skipped. "O-oh my god."

Sombra had been gentle at first. This time she nipped a little harder. And she was not quite _ready_ for the creaky, throaty warble she brought forth from Hana, for the tingle radiating from the implants in her spine, for her groin to feel so open and _molten_. She pushed harder into Hana's clit behind the seam of her trousers. Hana ground into her hand. When Sombra pulled away, she whined. "You can't _stop._ Gimme _more._ "

"Patience, _mija,_ " Sombra said. "Imagine coming in your jeans before I take them off." She'd been joking but Hana drew up her knees. Sombra blinked, trying to discern her expression—but she'd turned her face into the sheets, and all Sombra could see was a red-rimmed ear and the suggestion of a burning cheek. "Hey. We're still cool, right?"

Hana grunted what she could only assume to be affirmation, her knees dropping and parting—wanting this more than whatever'd stopped her up. As she unbuttoned Hana's fly Sombra gave her red, swollen nipple a parting kiss—by way of apology.

Under her trousers, Sombra would find Hana's thighs granite things. She lowered herself between them, circling the pads of her fingers in the hollows of her inner thighs and finding no give to the taut muscle. If she kissed there it was like kissing concrete. If she tried to take a mouthful, there was nothing soft for her mouth to hold; she left painted violet skids on her skin. Still she was doing something right, the way the muscles coursed and tensed under the surface. Such _density._ What Sombra understood before meeting her, but had not been given the chance to appreciate, was that Song Hana had the strength to crush her head between these deceptively slender, stony limbs.

She hiked the elastic of Hana's damp underwear away from the swell of her vulva. This must be the only soft part of her hard, lean body. She was smooth, flushed, (not unexpectedly) clean-shaven. She was dripping. Yet anticipating the approach of Sombra's fingers, her cunt drew up and tensed. Her soft mound goose-pimpled in what could be anticipation or apprehension.

Sombra floated the suspicion that lingered in the back of her mind—this thing known intellectually but not fully realized: "Never been touched like this before."

Hana fell still. By her quiet Sombra knew she hit the mark. (Sombra never missed her mark.) This tacit admission settled oddly in Sombra's stomach, a heavy mass volleying, indecisive, between heat and glacial cold.

"Does that matter?" Hana had spent a great deal of time deliberating very few words.

Sombra peered up the slope of Hana's abdomen. "It's kinda hot."

The sheets rustled as Hana clenched them up in her fingers, drawing a long, long breath. In this lull Sombra realized she had not noticed—in the headiness of their arousal—that gnarled stretch of her scar coiling around her knee, ending a quarter of the way up her thigh. (Encyclopaedically, her brain filled in: Hana's second deployment. _Gwishin_ ambush. She'd been alone.) Sombra ran her nails over that hillock of hard, unforgiving skin. She wondered if she was the first person to truly see this scar.

"Look, don't… go gentle on me. Just because I've never—been touched by a woman. Like this." Hana's hips shifted. "Please, just fuck me like that doesn't matter. Okay? Please just—fuck me hard."

She could see it as adorable naivety—that Hana believed she _wasn't_ going to. But she wouldn't be Sombra if she did that.

And Hana need never know that. Right now—at face value—Sombra took it as permission for the weight in her stomach to melt through her pelvic floor and drench her cunt. "Since you asked so nicely." As she exhaled a hot breath through her grin, Hana's clit quivered at stiff attention. Hana's breath picked up a frantic staccato pace.

Sombra's fingers massaged Hana's labia apart with deep, slow strokes. She dragged her tongue deep between them from tail to clit; Hana was hot, clean, musky salt. Her clit was irresistible to suck—when she wrapped her lips around it, Hana groaned from her chest. Reinvigorated, she failed to resist grinding her hips onto Sombra's lavishing mouth. Her desire dripped down Sombra's chin.

Her mouth played Hana's clit and her cunt in turns—adding her fingers to that shuddering canal while she teased her clit with her tongue, circling and massaging the clit when she tasted inside of her. And Hana came—not unexpected but _fast_ , a succession of tremors, a spring-trap closing, a swell of moisture that Sombra struggled to drink up. She licked the salt from her lips and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. It came away clear. All of her usual purple was on Hana.

She joined Hana on the mattress. Hana's arms splayed; her breasts shuddered with every gasp for breath. "I saw stars. I thought that was a figure of speech. I really saw—stars."

"You're welcome."

"Can I say something that might be bad?" Hana propped herself up on shaky elbows. "I might be obsessed with you."

"That sounds dangerous," Sombra said, truthfully. "For you."

"I feel like… I know but don't care." Hana shook her head. "Can I just touch you? I need to touch you."

Sombra dragged one knee over the other, the base of her spine tingling from the hot, slick slide of unsated want in her groin. "You sure don't need a signed permission slip."

And she welcomed Hana in, rolling underneath her, charmed by the messy, breathy kisses she gave when no one but Sombra surveilled her. Endeared by her eagerness to explore Sombra, her mouth finding Sombra's lips and her chin and her throat—to discover all the ways Sombra's body differed from Hana's. As she hitched Sombra's top up her breasts, she would find barbell piercings embedded in deep brown nipples, rolling and twisting them in her fingers to make Sombra bite her lip. She would find bullet wounds peppering Sombra's torso—old, faded things, ones Sombra had nearly forgot; her gaze would vacillate between wistful and something like proud until Sombra could bear it no more and kissed that look off her face. She would find raised, fine ridges—wires of subcutaneous cybernetics—and gloss them over.

She would reach down Sombra's trousers and find a soft nest of curls, raking her fingers through them. And behind that, she would find the two of them much the same after all—that Sombra's clit was hard, that her cunt was hot and wet and eager to embrace the finger she slipped and stroked and pumped inside.

Between gasps she remarked: "Quick study."

Hana twisted the heel of her thumb into Sombra's clit and just grinned—too drunken to be sultry, too green to be anything but, crushingly, earnest. She was panting now; when Sombra glided a hand down Hana's front and crooked her fingertips between her legs she would find Hana newly wet and needy. She worked her fingers through the crevice between Hana's satin-smooth labia. Taking after her cue Hana hooked and pulled a second finger through Sombra's cunt—Sombra's hips rolled after each frantic stroke.

In all of this it took little effort to make Hana come for the second time. Hana shuddered, her limbs locking, her fingers curling inside Sombra's slick and clenching cunt, her thumb pressing heavy into her clit—and Sombra followed her. For Sombra there were no stars. There was a rush of blood and pressure to her groin and to her head both at once, a cresting and falling of her pounding pulse—but no stars. Her shoulders relaxed. Hana's head was pillowed on her collarbone, her weight draped onto her body, her limbs having since gone to jelly. "Mind _blown,_ " Hana was still babbling, between deep, slowing breaths. "You're wild… You're unreal."

Secretly Sombra savored the praise. Outwardly she murmured: " _Que hermosa._ " Somehow, in sweaty, messy satiation, all painted up in violet, her crescent smile all crooked and yearning, she enraptured. She was always beautiful, the glossy doll they made of her for the camera. No one would see her honest—flushed and scarred and hair all mussed. No one would see her _breathtaking_. This image Sombra saved in her mind's eye.

"'sat mean?" Hana was slurring now, afterglow catching up with inebriation. Sombra let her body slide off hers, and she, leaden, simply sank into the bed.

Sombra raked her fingers through Hana's hair. "Means you're gorgeous."

" _You're_ gorgeous."

"I know."

Hana slung a lean, powerful arm over Sombra's torso—reeling her in the precise way a child did a beloved toy. Sombra's heart skipped a beat—then a second. No reason for that. Hadn't she come out ahead? Just as she always did. Even paying Hana the favor, Sombra came out ahead. Sombra was the first and only person to know as much of Hana's body as she had taken tonight. She would always be her first; that would always remain _hers_. (She might—perhaps—remain the only.) The flip in her stomach she could ignore. She took in the sprawl of Hana's body from toe to tip—encyclopaedically. She lingered on Hana's thighs—those taut, powerful things that could've snapped around her head.

Sombra waited—for the flush to fade off Hana's brow, for her pulse to slow and her eyes to close—to extract herself from Hana's arms and wipe the lipstick off her cheek.


End file.
